


Damsel

by AmandaHuffleduck, Lasenby_Heathcote



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Detective Noir, F/F, Graphic Description of Corpses, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, POV First Person, Pre-Slash, Private Investigators, Steve Rogers is the epitome of 'statuesque blond/e', Stucky - Freeform, implied/referenced Steve Rogers/omc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-15 11:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14789939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaHuffleduck/pseuds/AmandaHuffleduck, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasenby_Heathcote/pseuds/Lasenby_Heathcote
Summary: Los Angeles,1948.Steve Rogers is goddam sure it was the actress Peggy Carter who killed Mike Williams. Problem is, the police don't believe him and the whole thing seems to be being brushed outta sight. Steve's not going to forget though, no sir, and he will do whatever is necessary to bring the truth to light. Luckily it's not just him and his stubbornness on the case anymore. Angie Martinelli, his friend and investigative partner inRogers Investigationsis happy to lend a hand.or: Captain America may have died in the wreck of the Valkyrie, but three years on there's a Steve Rogers in LA doing just fine minding other peoples' business.





	Damsel

**Author's Note:**

> This was _so much_ fun :D  
>  Thank you lasenby_heathcote for the gorgeous, inspirational art! [ (on tumblr)](https://lasenbyphoenix.tumblr.com/)  
> Thank you, thebookhunter ([Incredifishface on tumblr](http://incredifishface.tumblr.com/)) for the beta!  
> Any further mistakes are my own.  
> Thank you, Bang mods, for a great Bang! ~~is that meant to sound as dubious as it does?~~
> 
>  And as always - because I lived through the strike-throughs and deletions of yesteryear - I claim nothing. I own nothing. I'm not getting paid.
> 
> _Things of note in this AU:_
> 
> \- Project Rebirth happened but Agent Carter was not directly involved. Steve’s main contacts were Erskine and Stark  
> \- Azzano happened  
> \- Steve & Bucky fought with the Howlies, including some hairy operations with the French Resistance. Their liaison was a shadowy female English agent codenamed Red Rose  
> \- Bucky fell: Steve broke, but -  
> \- He escaped the Valkyrie after the crash and was found by Howard  
> \- Steve, heartsick, shattered, convinces Howard to let Captain America stay dead  
> \- Howard reluctantly agrees to this, because he’s not a complete dick, and takes the shield back. The official story is that the shield was the only thing he recovered from Captain America’s last mission. No body, no plane, but if Congress would like to finance another operation to find Captain America’s body then they can go right ahead but Howard Stark has more productive things to spend his money on  
> \- (Howard did find the tesseract but that’s another story)  
> \- Steve, disguised as a common crewman on Howard’s trawler, disembarks in Los Angeles, where Howard helps him establish his Detective Agency with the proviso that Steve also helps field test the occasional bit of Stark Tech  
> \- Cpt Steve Rogers is quietly sidelined; Captain America, and his sacrifice, continues to be exalted as the shining beacon of patriotism
> 
> Story Spoilers in the After notes.

****

 

**Damsel**

 

_Steve, Monday, 9th August, 1948. 7 p.m_.

 

The movie theatre is dark, the light from the screen silhouetting the people arrayed in rows in front of me. The shapes of their heads, their hair, the occasional tasteful little ladies' hat, all picked out in the shifting luminance of Hollywood make-believe.

 

Angie Martinelli is sitting on my right, the rich butter and salt smell of her fresh popcorn mingling with the sweet apple and violet of the perfume she prefers. The smell coming from the guy on my left isn't so pleasant though: jeez, pal, soap and water were never rationed, and your cheap-ass cologne in no way masks your lack of hygiene.

 

I turn my head a little, not only to look at Martinelli, but to get that man's stench outta my nose. Angie is enthralled, no doubt about it, absorbed with the action on screen. Like me, she's a native New Yorker who moved out to LA after the war, in pursuit of something better, a new life. Unlike me, she has family and friends, a home to return to.  

 

Angie may be glued to the screen but I'm having trouble even turning my eyes that way. Peggy Carter is being touted as a talented actress, a rising star with 'classic English good looks', but all I can see superimposed over that dark-eyed beauty is the brutal, black and white police crime scene photos of my murdered friend. Mike's eyes are open wide, his jaw slack and loose. The collar of his white shirt is askew and his fashionably patterned tie is bunched up beneath his chin. The neat hole punched in his forehead and the pool of black spreading from beneath his normally slicked back hair are the only things that jar with the idea that he's just fallen over drunk. I’ve seen blood spilled like that before, it’s all too easy to imagine what it’d looked like in reality. Being a soldier was bad enough; I would not be a cop for any amount of money.

 

The police investigation came to nothing. Mike's assailant was never identified, but Peggy Carter murdered my friend, I know it, and I am going to bring her to justice if it's the last thing I do.

 

“All right, give.” Angie quizzes me as I walk her home. “Why did we go see that movie in particular?”

 

The murder investigation made a brief splash in the papers for a few days then disappeared. This was six months ago and I’ve said nothin’ about it. Nothing. Even Angie doesn’t know that Mike was my friend.

Time to come clean. Sorta.

 

“You remember the... death Peggy Carter was implicated in?”

 

Angie’s blue eyes narrow a little as she thinks back.

 

“Implicated and cleared. As I recall.”

 

I nod, shove my hands in my pockets to disguise the sudden tremble of anger.

 

“The victim was a friend of mine,”

 

That stops Angie in her tracks.

 

“Oh shoot, Steve, I’m so sorry.” Angie’s hand has darted out to rest on my elbow in an empathy I know is genuine.

 

“Thanks.”

 

The word is so soft and broken I’m ashamed it makes it outta my mouth. _Man up, soldier_. I lift my chin and square my shoulders.

 

“I believe Carter is guilty.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I don’t know yet but the police were wrong to rule her out.”

 

Angie’s giving me that look, the one I haven’t been able to interpret despite knowing her for almost three years. It’s not the ‘ _you are as dumb/stubborn as a box of rocks sometimes_ ’ look, or the ‘ _hey, good going, ace_ ’ one either. I can’t tell right now if she thinks I’m cracked or just hopeless.

 

“Anyway,” I continue, my fingers curling into tight fists inside my pockets. “I’m going to open my own investigation, just quietly. Thought you should know.”

 

“Alrighty then.” Angie resumes walking, a measured pace, looking down at the dusty sidewalk as she thinks. “This can’t impact our regular cases.”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“This’ll be on your own time and dime?”

 

“Naturally.”

 

I shoot here my patented ‘I’m a professional’ look. She isn’t impressed or intimidated, as expected, and I almost smile.

 

“Alrighty then,” she repeats with a quirk of her lips. “Do you need any help?”

 

“Almost certainly.” I do smile then.

 

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

 

“Sure.”

 

We’ve arrived at her apartment building.

 

“Good night, Rogers. Be in bright and early.”

 

“Yes ma’am.” I tip my hat to her.

 

Anybody listening to our conversation might’ve got the impression that the slim young woman in the nice green two piece suit was the boss of the outfit. Technically they’d be wrong; technically, I’m the boss of Roger’s Investigations - it’s my name on the door - but Angie is my colleague, my partner. She is a great investigator, cheerfully efficient, can read my handwriting, and has a knack for stopping me from gettin’ too far in to my head. That’s always been a problem, and it’s been worse since the war. I’ve been lucky to always have friends around to call me on my malarkey.

 

I’m very glad I spoke to Angie before I started, I think I’m gonna need that ‘keeping me outta my head’ service for this.

 

\----

 

I hear Angie arrive the next morning - the quick tap of her heels on the stairs, the cheerful tune she’s humming - and I’m ready to open the front door before she get there. She grins up at me.

 

“Morning, Rogers!”

 

She’s carrying two coffees in takeaway paper cups, from the diner down the block. Sure, we’ve got a coffee pot here in the office, that’ll be started up within the next half hour, but the diner is on Angie’s way to work. I met her while she was waitressing there, polite and smiling with even the biggest jerks of customers. She still feels a certain loyalty to the place, likes the owner. Besides, the coffee is pretty damn good. So’s the food. We eat there a lot.

 

I accept the cup gratefully: despite having been in the office since before daybreak I haven’t had a coffee yet. She follows me through to the inner office.

 

“Did you sleep?” Angie asks, eyeing my face.

 

“Some.” I’ve got a mirror, I know I look rough.

 

“Have you eaten at least?” She clicks her tongue at my shrug. “Jeez, Rogers, you gotta do better than that. Go make yourself a sandwich. I know we’ve got bread and cheese.”

 

Angie gets herself settled while I turn towards our ‘kitchen’, which is just a cupboard and a single hotplate in the corner of the front office that serves as reception.

We do have bread and cheese, and pickles, as it happens. Angie gives me a steely eyed gaze, watching until I take a bite of my sandwich. She nods approvingly.

 

“We’re going to have lunch at the diner,” she points a finger at me. “And you are going to eat at least one vegetable. Fries don’t count.”

 

“Fine, _ma_.”

 

My eyeroll is exaggerated and Angie smirks at me.

 

Truth is, I’m not the same man I was before I enlisted and fought. I don’t care about myself as much as I should, but Angie has some experience with ‘war-blasted men’ and she is deft at handling me. If I was more prideful, I guess it might bother me, being bossed around by a woman not my wife, or girlfriend, or a relation of any sort, but Angie is kind and she’s my friend.

 

“So. Peggy Carter.” Angie sits forward. “Whaddya got?”

 

I open the drawer and pull out the file marked ‘Williams’. I put it down on the desk, lightly press my fingertips into the rough brown cover, then push it over to Angie.

 

“Press clippings, police reports, coroners report. There’s… photos.”

 

Angie nods, understanding, visibly steeling herself.

 

“I’ll read it, but first, you tell me the story.”

 

I breathe in, deep and slow: this is where it gets complicated. How much do I say? How much might I accidentally _infer_? I decide to go with what I told the police, but Angie is smarter than most of them, and she knows me better. It’s a risk, but one I gotta take if I want her help.

 

“I met Mike here in LA. He was a reporter, freelance. We’d get together for beers sometimes, go watch a game, that sort of thing. Anyway, he rings me up one night saying he’s got something on an actress, Peggy Carter, that, quote, _you won’t believe_. He didn’t want to say what that was over the phone, so we arranged to meet up the next day. He didn’t show. The next morning I found out he’d been murdered.”

 

Angie’s hand is resting on my wrist, a warm, slight weight I appreciate more than I can say.

 

“You told the police this?”

 

“I did. They wrote it all down, then I waited and waited but didn’t hear back.”

 

Angie frowns when she’s thinking. It’s kinda cute, but in a kid sister sort of way. Don’t know that I’d ever tell her that, she’s likely to slug me one. I’m an only child but that’s the behaviour I’ve observed in other people’s kid sisters.

 

“You followed it up?”

 

“ _Course I did_.”

 

The old rage and frustration is boiling up from somewhere black inside me. I tamp it down. Take a breath. Angie doesn’t deserve any of that.

 

“Course I did, and the detective said they’d looked in to it and there was nothing of consequence to come out of my statement.”

 

“You don’t believe them?”

 

“I don’t. Mike was a good reporter, very thorough, he never made wild claims. If he said he had something on Peggy Carter then he had something on Peggy Carter.” I lift my shoulders, helpless all over again. “The police didn’t believe me.”

 

“And then Carter was cleared - I remember the news articles - and…” she looked up at me, sharply, as she reached her own conclusions. “Her connection to it was never mentioned again.”

 

“ _Anywhere_.” I emphasised. “I checked, very thoroughly. Local, state, national papers. There was nothing.”

 

Angie sat back, grinning and impish.

 

“Hot damn, Rogers, I think we got ourselves a cover-up.”

 

I breathed out, feeling relief dragging over the jagged edges of my anger. The hours and hours of trawling through newspaper archives didn’t feel like such a waste of time anymore.

 

“That’s what I’ve been thinking. And I’m not sure it’s just another studio job. Carter’s not small fry but she ain’t A List yet either.”

 

The movie studios are notorious - in certain circles - for how far they’ll go to keep their stars shining the way they’ve been fashioned. Seems like sometimes you can do pretty much anything in this town, as long as you’re profitable, and any indiscretion can be made to disappear. Murder though? Not sure about that.

 

Angie’s pulled back to give me a hard look.

 

“You’ve been stewing on this for months.”

 

“Guilty.”

 

“So why now - oh.” Angie sighed. “Carter’s new movie. And the award rumours.”

 

“All the praise and adulation and magazine articles.” My voice drops to a hoarse whisper. “She doesn’t deserve it, Angie. She just doesn’t.”

 

Angie grips my hand in both of hers and looked me earnestly in the eyes.

 

“We’ll get to the bottom of this, Steve, we will.”

 

She twists her wrist slightly to check her watch.

 

“If our 9.30 is on time we’ve got ten minutes. I’ll get the coffee started.”

 

She stands up from the desk, picks up the file.

 

“I’ll read this later, in the meantime…”

 

She marches the six feet over to her own desk and locks the file away there. I appreciate the consideration. That’s not the only copy I’ve got but it isn’t professional to leave case sensitive material laying around.

 

Our 9.30 appointment is ten minutes late, but he’s shown in to an office that’s clean and tidy, and smells of good coffee.

 

“Get us a couple of cups will you, sweetheart.”

 

He hadn’t even looked at Angie but was still quite comfortable giving her orders.

Standing behind his middle-class bulk where it’s settled in the visitor’s chair, Angie rolls her eyes.

 

“If you wouldn’t mind, please, Miss Martinelli.” I ask politely, demonstrating the good manners I’d hoped for from our potential client.

 

“Certainly, Mr Rogers.” Angie all but chirps, taking herself back out to reception.

 

Our laggardly 9.30, Ansel Anders, small-time wanna be film producer, leans forward, aggressive.

 

“I’ve heard you’re good at what you do.”

 

I incline my head, almost smile.

 

“I have positive testimonials, yes.”

 

“I need evidence of my wife’s infidelity.”

 

I don’t scowl, even though I really want to: I don’t care for his phrasing.

 

“If there’s evidence, Mr Anders, I can find it. I won’t manufacture evidence if there isn’t any.”

 

“I can pay you whatever you want. I mean - ” He leans further forward, conspiratorially, inviting me in to his confidence. I don’t budge. “There’ll be evidence, I know it. That worthless tramp has been stepping out on me for weeks now. I _know_ it.”

 

Anders might ‘know it’ but I’m not convinced. My gut instinct is telling me he just wants an excuse to get rid of his wife. She may not be blameless, but married to _this guy_ …? I wouldn’t criticize.

 

I stay silent long enough for Anders to start to sweat, then I outline my terms, retainer and fees. He tries to bargain me down but I just smile without showing my teeth and keep my eyes hard. He agrees, reluctantly, and pulls out a cheque book. It’s housed in a nicely tooled, clearly expensive leather holder. I accept the cheque but I’m liking him less and less. His ‘big shot’ wardrobe and contrived smoothness is annoying me.  

 

Angie returns with the coffees and I thank her while Anders just grunts. I go to say something but Angie glares at me from behind our new client, who hasn’t noticed this by-play at all.

 

We’ve had this discussion before, Angie and I, with words, even. I want her to get the respect she deserves as a professional and as my colleague. Angie argues that being underestimated, taken for granted, can be useful. Neither of us has backed down on our opinions yet.

 

Anders talks, I take notes. The more he says the more convinced I am he’s talking out of his ass, making shit up on the spot. He doesn’t like my poker face, that’s for damn sure, doesn’t like that I’m not responding with appropriate outrage. The examples of his wife’s ‘suspicious behaviour’ he’s feeding me get more elaborate, trying to hook me in. Yeah, well, buddy, my job is to find the facts, not agree with everything you say.

 

Angie and I both breath a sigh of relief when he’s gone. Angie volunteers to take the cheque to the bank but I need to stretch my legs.

 

When I get back, Angie’s nose deep in the Williams file, the notepad beside her already sporting a couple of pages of her own observations.

 

She looks up and nods towards my desk.

 

“Courier dropped off another parcel from your mysterious benefactor.”

 

“It might not be from them.” I argue.

 

“It is.”

 

She’s right, of course. There’s never a return address on the packages Howard sends but his handwriting is distinctive.

 

Despite her curiosity, Angie stays at her own desk while I peel back the brown paper wrapping. One of Howard’s parcels exploded once. Only a small explosion, that Howard apologised for, citing incorrect packing, but it was forceful enough to throw Angie back a few feet. She’s been cautious ever since.  

 

“Huh.”

 

“What is it?” Angie asks, approaching now that it seems safe.

 

“An electronic lock pick.” I reply, reading the accompanying note.

 

“How on earth does that work?”

 

“Magnets, apparently, and a battery.”

 

The device sits heavy in my hand, a metal box a little bigger than my palm, but small enough to easily conceal. There’s no Stark logo on it anywhere.

 

Angie darts over to the office door, locks it and removes the key.

 

“You gonna try it out or what?”

 

“All right, here goes…”

 

An hour later and Angie and I’ve tested the lockpick on all the different locks in our office; doors, desks, filing cabinets. It takes a while to get in to the small, secondary wall safe hidden behind the painting of the Brooklyn Bridge, but it does open. The old-fashioned, solidly obvious safe in the corner of the inner office opened pretty damn quick though. I make a mental note to upgrade both safes. Howard could probably suggest something.

 

The lockpick is stowed in the gadgets cupboard and we go to lunch. As promised, or threatened, Angie makes me eat my minimum vegetable. I choose a side of green beans to go with my burger. Angie looks hard at me when I dump ketchup all over them.

 

\-----

 

“Steve.” Angie says quietly, thoughtfully, as she’s getting ready to leave that evening. “I may have a way to get close to Carter.”

 

“How?” I’m pretty sure I blink.

 

“I still have contacts in the industry.”

 

The ‘industry’ of course being Hollywood, the movies. Angie had come out to LA to be an actress but it hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped. The few speaking roles she’d had hadn’t been enough of a leg up, that was why she’d been working at the diner. But my gut lurches at the idea of Angie anywhere near Carter.

 

“Not a good idea.”

 

“I’ll be fine.”

 

“She’s dangerous.”

 

Angie doesn’t flinch.

 

“We’re not gonna get much more outta the paperwork you’ve put together so the next logical step is to talk to the people involved, right?” I nod, reluctantly. “In this case it’s the detectives, who, if this is a cover up, ain’t gonna be much help, and do we really want them knowing what we’re doing? Next it’d be the person who called it in, who is conveniently untraceable, which leaves Carter herself.”

 

Angie’s right, talking to Carter _is_ the most logical step, but dammit, I don’t like it at all.

 

“You aiming to get her to confess?”

 

“Wouldn’t that be _great_ !” Angie’s dripping sarcasm. “That’d be such a _great_ outcome, wouldn’t it? And so easy to achieve, I’m sure. I just gotta sidle up to her and ask!”

 

“Ange…”

 

We’re glaring at each other: this isn’t unusual.

 

“She’s dangerous.” I repeat.

 

“And I’m careful.” Angie smiles like she thinks she’s got me onboard. “Least I can do is scout around a bit to start.”

 

“Yeah, alright.” I rub my forehead. “You do be careful though. I respect you an’ all but don’t make me come rescue you. And you’ll be paid for your hours, and I want to see an expenses sheet. Got it?”

 

“Got it!” Angie salutes me in the sloppy style of the complete amateur. I know she’s doing it wrong; she knows I know and grins, big and bright and cheeky. “Get some sleep, Rogers. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

\-----

 

There’s a photo of me and Mike in my nightstand drawer. It was taken at the Griffith Observatory by a mutual friend. Mike and I are in short sleeves because it’s hot, and we’re sitting close but not too close. We’re smiling at each other. His hair is slicked back and it’s a few shades darker than mine. He looks so handsome and happy. There’s another photo, buried deeper in the drawer so I can’t accidentally catch sight of it, of another smiling, handsome fella. Dark haired, this one, with dark stubble that felt so good under my fingertips.

 

It’s surprising how liberating it was to finally talk to someone about Mike’s murder. Angie was right, I’d been stewing on this for months, but, maybe there was a way forward now. I was going to avenge my friend, and I wasn’t going to do it alone.

 

I think I might actually be able to sleep tonight.

 

_Angie, Wednesday, 11th August,  6 p.m._

 

The file on Williams is sparse and grim. Rogers hasn’t been able to gather much information, despite his contacts in the police force. More than was released to the public, sure, but still not that much. He’d made some notes about the news clippings; the first one that mentioned Carter had been written by a colleague of Williams. Steve speculated that if that hadn’t happened, would the other outlets have reported on her involvement? Steve’s notes indicated he hasn’t been able to speak to the reporter, Christopher Matthews, who’s been assigned to Malaya of all places and who is, according to the news bureau he’s contracted with, ‘uncontactable for the foreseeable future’’. Nevertheless, Steve’s left messages for the guy with them, and with the American embassy over there. Rogers has also tried to find next of kin for Matthews but hasn’t had any luck there either. I make my own note to check with Steve if he’d met Matthews through Williams.

 

I read the statement Steve had given to the investigators and it’s almost word for word what he’d said to me, like he’d rehearsed it. Which made me wonder: why so careful? What was it he didn’t want to say? I have my suspicions, a couple of them, but for reasons of my own I ain’t gonna pry.

 

I wasn’t being entirely honest with Steve when I said I had ‘industry contracts’. Not being outright dishonest, just using a bit of verbal sleight of hand.

 

There are places in Los Angeles where ladies of a, let’s say, certain persuasion can meet. I’ve been to similar clubs in New York and a friend from there gave me some addresses in LA, carefully disguised with the names of elderly aunts. I’ve visited them all. One closed down after a raid but another sprang up somewhere else to take its place.

 

The thing is: I’ve seen Peggy Carter at a coupla these places over the past couple of years. Not often, and she was obviously making an effort to not be recognised, but I’m real good at faces, and she is really pretty, so of course I noticed her. I only recently realised she was an actress but that’s hardly a surprise in these circles. Actresses and singers, entertainers are always there, but also wives and daughters with famous names and notable families come to mingle with the rest of us. Nobody snitches, privacy is important.

 

But yeah, Carter turns up in these bars every now and again, sometimes with a pal in tow, sometimes she makes a pal on the spot. Don’t think I’ve ever seen her leave with anyone though, so maybe not pals, just friends. But that’s what I do, isn’t it? I go there to drink, dance up a storm, maybe flirt a little but at the end of the night walk out alone. I haven’t met anybody worth the risk.  

 

I had used my actual film industry contacts to check if Carter’s even in town, and hallelujah, she is, for the next little while at least before she jets off somewhere for another role. Word is it’ll be jolly olde England, for a historical drama. Personally? I think she’d be aces in a slapstick comedy.

 

So. I made up a list of likely places and a visiting schedule, the plan being to go out at least three nights a week to places where I’ve seen Carter before. If after a coupla weeks of this there’s no sign of my mark, I’ll swap the days and locations around, establish a new schedule. It’s not likely to have a quick result and I told Steve as much.  

\----

 

“Angie! Baby!” Trixie, not her real name as I’d discovered months ago, descends on me in a flurry of perfume and powder the moment I set foot inside Lillie’s. “Where you been, honey?”

 

I kiss her cheek like she’s kissed mine, leaving a smudge of lipstick behind.

 

“Work has been so busy!” It’s the truth.

 

Trixie shakes her head, soft blonde curls bouncing around her face. Last time I saw her she was a redhead.

 

“Let me buy you a drink.” She’s grabbed a hold of my elbow and is pulling me towards the bar. “Have you graduated from beer yet?”

 

“No, I have not.”

 

Trixie and I sit and chat, catching up on the almost half a year it’s been since I showed my face.  

Her knee is nudging mine, just a bit. I know she likes me, wants to be pals, and I like her too, but I don’t feel that spark.

 

I can’t ask her about Carter, of course, but I keep my eyes open. I stay for the one beer, beg off another saying I gotta work early tomorrow, and promise not to be a stranger.

 

“I mean it.” Trixie admonishes. “I miss your accent, and your pretty eyes.”

 

“Aw, shucks,” I say, playing it up. “You tryin’ to turn my head?”

 

“Always, sugar.” But she’s smiling, soft like she’s not serious.

 

It’s only 7pm when I leave Lillie’s, nodding to the lookout as I exit the alley. Do I want to try my luck at another bar? The Fragrant isn’t far away.

 

I decide not to; I’d told Trixie I was going home and while she might not turn up somewhere else later on, she also might do just that and I don’t want to make more of a liar of myself than I already have.

 

The next morning at the office I dutifully list my one hour of night work. Steve notices, of course, he sees all in his domain, even though the time sheet won’t be handed over to him until the end of the month.

 

“Expenses?”

 

“Not this time.”

 

“Somebody bought your drinks for you, huh?” He’s shrewd, this guy.

 

“Just the one.”

 

“Okay, let me know how it goes...”

 

Two weeks later and Steve suggests I take time off during the day to match the hours I’m spending out at night. I’m not exactly old but this going out regularly a few nights a week is more taxing than I remember from my ‘wild youth’ in Queens. So, I sleep in the mornings after my excursions and get to work late. I can’t be out of the office that much, I need to keep an eye on Rogers.

 

Since I started working for him as his assistant, then later _with_ him as his partner, I’ve seen his moods go up and down, up and down. I feel so sorry for him when it’s bad and he’s not sleeping, but there’s not much I can do other than make sure he’s getting more in his stomach than just coffee. I can be there to listen if he wants to talk, sure, but he hardly ever does because he is a stubborn s.o.b. who is _just fine_. You shoulda seen the look I gave him when I suggested that maybe he might wanna go see a doctor or something, get some pills to help him sleep. You’da thought I’d recommended poison!

 

“You can’t hide anything from me.” I’d said when he frostily asked why I made the suggestion. “You’re pretty an’ all, for a man, but you look like you’ve been sleeping in an alley.”

 

“... What?”

 

“The bags under your eyes have got bags of their own. You haven’t shaved properly since last wednesday and sure, you don’t smell or nothin’, but you ain’t looking as sharp as you usually do.”

 

He’d opened his mouth to say something pithy, no doubt, but shut it again with a snap.

 

“I.. haven’t been sleeping well.”

 

“No? Really? Coulda fooled me!”

 

So, yeah, I’ve been watching his mood go down again for the past couple of months and now I know why. Captain America was, still is, idolised far and wide, but Steve Rogers doesn’t seem to have anybody but me. Although… Steve kept very quiet about Williams so can I actually say with any certainty that I’m all he’s got? We’re friends, we spend time together outside of work, but we don’t live in each other’s pockets. He could have a bunch of people! He could be out living it up everytime he’s out of my sight! I doubt it somehow. I think it is just me, and whoever the mad genius it is that sends him those parcels.

 

Who I’m pretty sure is Howard Stark.

 

Do I know for sure? No, but I’m smart, I’m an investigator, I can put two and two together. I saw all the Captain America movies and, as I said, I’m good with faces. Also, Rogers is a big guy and obviously strong, but nonchalantly-lifting-up-our-solid-wood-filing-cabinet-with-one arm strong? That thing is heavy and even with me throwing all my weight at it I can’t shift it an inch, a half-inch! Seeing him do that stopped me dead in my tracks but it was obvious Steve didn’t know I was there so I snuck away right quick and never said anything about it.

 

So if Steve is Captain America then his scientist buddy would have to be Howard Stark, right?

 

I’m not gonna ask Steve about any of it. Captain America’s noble death saved the world, and Cap, with his stars and stripes and cowl is still being used as patriotic candy. His image crops up on recruitment posters mostly, with phrases like ‘remember his sacrifice’, but the government is not above slapping Cap’s mug on whatever it wants to sell.

 

_Captain Steve Rogers,_ however, is never mentioned at all. If the idea is for the man behind the mask to be forgotten, well, it’s working I think.

 

\----

 

My allotted two week trial passes with no hits so I switch the schedule around and bang, there’s Peggy Carter sitting pretty - literally, she is gorgeous - in Club Moonlit on a Thursday night. I’m undecided what to do next. Do I go and say hello, or just waft myself in front of her a little, so she sees my face and won’t be surprised to see it again? Do I take the chance in case this is just a random appearance?

She’s sitting at one of the small, round tables on her own, but being given the eye from several women nearby. She’s also tapping her foot to the music, and that decides me.   

 

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Angie. Wanna dance?”

 

She glances up at me and her lips twitch.

 

“Maggie. Let me buy you a drink first.”

 

A waitress appears from outta nowhere, takes our order and vanishes again. Carter’s accent is crisp and classy.

 

“You’re not from around here.” I say, smooth as burlap, which is to say, not smooth at all.

 

“Neither are you.” She tilts her head slightly. “New York?”

 

“You got me!” I confess.

 

“Enjoying the sunshine?”

 

“I never used to think there was any such thing as ‘too much sunshine’, but y’know? California has cured me of that.”

 

There’s an unwritten code of conduct in these places. Carter doesn’t ask me what I do, ‘cause then I might ask her what she does, so we talk about nothing important, shoe sales, the weather.

“Come on then.” Carter stands and offers me her hand. “Let’s dance.”

 

Her slacks are a soft camel with side buttons. Her blouse is a pretty ivory with tiny pink roses embroidered on the collar tips. It drapes beautifully, not quite clinging to her breasts but definitely enhancing the goods.

 

Holey moley, I’m dancing with _Peggy Carter_.

 

She’s good, I’m better and can’t help showing off. Her smiles encourages me and well, it’s been a while since I’ve really let go.  

 

The music finishes and she pulls me in tight with a flourish, Our faces are only inches apart and she’s grinning at me. Our hips are pressed together and, oh boy. I don’t think it’s just the exercise that’s got me sweating. My gaze drops to her mouth: her lips are right there. I could just -

 

“Drink?” I ask.

 

Boy, I hope that didn’t sound as croaky as I think it did.

 

“Sure.”

 

Another drink, another fast and enthusiastic dance, and Peggy Carter - Maggie - begins to pull away from me. She’s stepped back but we’re still holding hands.

 

“Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

 

“Yeah, I should get going too. Early morning.” I squeeze her fingers. “See you ‘round?”

 

The look she’s giving me is speculative.

 

“How about here, next Tuesday? For supper?”

 

“Love to.”

 

“See you then.” She leans forward and kisses my cheek. She smells glorious.

 

I’m not literally skipping out of the club but I do feel lighter on my feet, taller, as I swing along home.

 

Two thoughts bump into each other as I get to my apartment, slowing me down. The first is that I may hafta be a bit more forthcoming with Rogers about how and where I’m hunting Carter and the other is… Maggie’d made a date with me for Tuesday at Club Moonlight. Maybe I’m overthinking it but Tuesdays had been my original schedule for Club Moonlight. Had Carter been there and I hadn’t noticed?

 

No, I’m overthinking. Coincidence, is all.

 

_Steve, Friday, August 27th, 11.30 a.m._

 

Angie obviously has something she wants to say, she’s been prickling with intent all morning.

I pour us both a coffee, put them on her desk then haul over the spare chair and sit myself down in front of her.

 

“Out with it.”

 

She twitches, wide-eyed, even though she’d been watching me the whole time and couldn’t have been surprised.

 

“I’ve met Carter.”

 

I can feel the heat rising up my neck but I stay quiet and wait for her to continue.

 

“Could the thing Williams had on her…” Angie’s pushing her fingertips together, hard enough the flesh is showing white beneath the pressure, “could it be that she likes dames?”

 

I know what Angie means, but I don’t know how to react. My first thought is that no, it’d have to be more than that because Mike exposing that sort of intimate detail about someone is kinda pot-kettle territory. It would’ve left him vulnerable. Him and me.

 

I’ve gotta think this through before I say anything. I hold up a finger; Angie nods, and waits.

 

“I can’t… I can’t see that being enough of a… scandalous thing for Mike to bother revealing,” I say carefully.

 

“People have killed before to keep that sort of secret,” Angie says, quiet, so quiet.

 

I have to acknowledge that, and do, with a sharp nod but still.

 

“It could’ve been, but I don’t know. I don’t know.”

 

I do want to know how Angie came to this conclusion about Carter but when I look at her to ask I’m pulled up short: there’s fear in her eyes. A fear I’m familiar with.

 

Oh. _Oh_. We keep so many damn secrets.

 

I clear my throat and look away. I’m not going to ask the obvious question.

 

“How did Carter seem to you?”

 

Angie relaxes the smallest amount.

 

“Normal?” She shrugs. “Charming, in a polite kinda way. She wasn’t threatening.”

 

“She’s an actress,” I point out. “She could be however she wanted.”

 

“Yeah, I know.” Angie leans back with a sigh, darts me another look I can’t decipher. “She invited me to meet her again. Next Tuesday night. I think I should go.”

 

She says this like she’s expecting me to protest, and she’s not wrong.

 

“You can’t be there.” Angie says, forestalling what I was going to say. Then she smiles, a tiny, mischievous twist of her lips. “Boys ain’t allowed.”

 

“I could wear a dress.”

 

Angie stares at me, then she laughs, and laughs and _laughs_ , folding in half in her chair, hands slapping her knees almost braining herself on her desk.

 

“My god, Rogers,” She gasps out between paroxysms. “I would pay real money to see that!”

 

I’m grinning, happy to see my friend like this, unguarded and joyful. It feels like it’s been a long time.

 

“Where would you even find a dress to fit…?” Angie wipes her eyes. Gamely struggles to get herself under control. “Let alone shoes!”

 

And she’s off again.

 

I laugh too, this time, and don’t say anything about knowing exactly where to go for not just dresses and shoes, but undergarments, cosmetics, wigs, accessories, everything. So many damn secrets.

 

When she’s finally managed to stop giggling, Angie asks me if I knew the reporter Christopher Matthews.

 

“Never met him. Mike mentioned him a few times, said he was a straight up guy, trustworthy.”

 

Which gets me thinking.

 

“What?” Angie prompts when I’ve been silent with my thoughts too long.

 

“He only talked about Matthews in the last few weeks, come to think of it.” A spike of anger, or grief, shoots up my spine to spear my brain. “But Mike said they’d known each other for years. I don’t suppose there was any reason for me to know about him earlier but…” I look away. “Had he told Matthews he might be in danger? Was he dropping hints about who I should talk to if… if anything happened to him?”

 

My eyes are prickling, so’s my nose. I’m not gonna cry, this is not the time. Angie’s there again without hesitation, her hand on my wrist, keeping me together.

 

“You still haven’t been able to contact Matthews?”

 

I shake my head.

 

“It’s like the guy has vanished off the face of the earth, but no one thinks he’s missing.”

 

“Worse case scenario?” Angie looks like she doesn’t want to even think it.

 

“Matthew’s been dealt with, too.” I look her straight in the eyes. “We have got to be real careful, Angie. Both of us...”

  


_Angie, Tuesday, August 31st, 6 p.m._

 

I spot her as soon as I come in; she’s waiting by the bar, a shot of whisky near her elbow. She smiles broadly when she sees me and suddenly I’ve got bubbles of champagne in my blood.

 

“Hungry?” Carter whispers in my ear as she draws me in. “I’ve reserved us a table at the back.”

 

Club Moonlight is mostly about drinking and dancing, but there’s food available too, and a quiet back room where it’s served. There’s an escape hatch in here, I know. One of two concealed doorways to be used in case of a raid.

 

It’s cosy, dimly lit by the candles on the tables. Intimate. The minestrone is fine, the bread rolls are fresh and good. The china is clean and pretty. Peggy’s feet are resting alongside mine.

 

“Would you like to see a movie?” she asks, warm brown eyes twinkling.

 

“Whaddya have in mind...?”

 

Not sure what I’d do if she suggested her own movie. Laugh, I guess.

 

We go and see _The Paleface_. It’s got Bob Hope and the wonderful Jane Russell and it’s funny like only Bob Hope movies can be. And you know what? It’s nice seeing a movie with someone I don’t have to hide from. Carter and I nudge each other and grin every time Jane Russell’s up there on the screen in her underwear.

 

“Would you like to do this again sometime?” Carter asks me as we stroll away from the theatre, gently bumping shoulders every other step.

 

“Yeah, I would.”

 

And we do. Another week, another movie; then another week and dinner at a proper restaurant, out in public like we’re friends. Which… it feels like we are, though I have to remind myself to call her ‘Maggie’, and remember why I’m here. But I can’t help being attracted to her. I don’t want her to be the villain Steve thinks she is.

 

Rogers, for all his manly muscles and chiseled jaw, can be such a mother hen. He frets over my safety; I’d know as much even if he didn’t tell me so to my face twice a day. I suggest maybe he could shadow me on my next date with ‘Maggie’, and that settles him down a little.

 

Maggie takes me to see a ‘semi-professional’ production of Much Ado About Nothing at a tiny little theatre on the outskirts of nowhere. I never much cared for Shakespeare and his high falutin’ language at school, but this is a modern retelling, in a New York setting with simpler language. I find myself enjoying it more than I thought I would. It’s really funny in places but, boy, I could’ve happily smashed some heads together over that stupid set-up.

 

Peggy smiles at my ranting.

 

“Yes, it’s infuriating!“ She slips her arm through my elbow, easy as you please. “What did you think of the setting? As a native New Yorker?”

 

I tell her that with that minimalist staging and backdrops all they’d have to do is change the accents and it could be any big city. Peggy nods thoughtfully. I ask her how she feels about Shakespeare not being performed ‘traditionally’ and she laughs.

 

“Get past the language, and the plays have ideas and scenarios that are still relevant, even now.” She pulls me in, speaks close to my ear. “It’s good, I think, to shake things up sometimes.”

 

Bubbles. Bubbles everywhere.

 

We have a late supper at a thrumming cafe closer to town. Steve manages to slip in quietly and find a seat. I’d spotted him at the play, too, though that wasn’t hard in a place that only seated fifty.  

 

“Are you an actress?” Peggy asks, startling me. “It’s just you talk about this production, and the movies we’ve seen, like you have some experience.”

 

“I… yeah some.” I falter, then shrug. “How many New York girls come out to LA just for the sunshine?”

 

Her expression is sympathetic.

 

“Have you given up completely?”

 

“I dunno, to be honest. What I’m doing now is satisfying.” I muster a grin. “And I sure don’t miss the 7 a.m. cattle calls!”

 

I shut my mouth quickly on the question I’d almost, almost asked, the one that would’ve given away that I knew precisely who she was. Peggy surprises me by answering it anyway.

 

“They are a refined torture.” She says smiling. “The only thing worse is shooting at night. In the rain.”

 

We lock eyes and Peggy lifts her cup of tea in a silent toast. I respond in kind with my own and there it is, she knows I know. It’s a relief.

 

Peggy has a nifty little sapphire blue roadster that she drives very well, very fast. We travel back in to town with the top down and holding hands, when she doesn’t need both hands to pilot. She pulls up in front of my building, and yes, Steve is probably going to blow a gasket about that. Just like he’d blow another, bigger gasket if he knew I was thinking about asking Peggy up.

 

“I run a self-defence class at the YWCA on monday evenings. 7 p.m..” Peggy says out of the blue, before I can do anything dumb, like ask her up. “Would you like to come along?.“

 

“Well, a girl’s gotta know how to look after herself.” I can’t stop the ridiculously big grin taking up half my face. I shift in the seat so I’m facing her. “Sounds fun.”

 

“Excellent.” She leans a little closer and touches my forearm. “You can call me Peggy, if you want.”

 

The tingle runs all the way down to my toes.

 

“I do want,” I blurt out. “To call you Peggy. That is. I’m still just Angie though.”

 

Eloquent I am not right now. I make a face at my own stupidity and Peggy - _I can call her Peggy!_ \- almost snorts.

 

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Very briefly her hand is cupping my cheek, then it’s gone. “I’ll see you monday, Angie. Need a lift?”

 

“There’s a bus. I’ll meet you there.”

 

I drag myself away, out of her car. At the top of the steps after I’d unlocked the door, I turn and give Peggy a small wave. She waves back then revs the car’s engine and takes off. Was she waiting to see that I got inside safely? I’m thrilled in all sorts of new ways.

 

\----

 

I find my way to Peggy’s class at the Y, only getting there a little bit late. She welcomes me in with a smile and I skulk to the back outta the way.

 

The students are all women - big surprise at the YWCA, I know - and all ages from itty teenagers to grandmas. They’re all dedicated too, I can see, and they listen closely to Peggy. She’s a good instructor, demonstrating things clearly. It’s kinda fun. She’s encouraging us to yell, to really make a noise! Some of us are having more trouble than the others, because making noise is not something women are generally encouraged to do, but we’re all trying.

 

Peggy has an assistant, an older, no-nonsense blonde in long, loose shorts, who moves around the class helping us students work out what to do with our bodies. She’s called Lorna, I find out later when she introduces herself to me, while we’re all pitching in to help the instructor for the next group set up. Not sure what they’re going to be doing but it involves wooden clubs and skipping ropes. And a wheelbarrow.

 

“So you’re Angie, huh?”

 

“Uh, yeah?”

 

Lorna’s expression can only be described as ‘knowing’ and I’m not sure what to say. Does Peggy talk about me?

 

The lady herself saunters over about then.

 

“So, what do you think, Angie? About the class?”

 

“It’s hard work.” I’m still sweating. “But it’s fun.”

 

I have an idea then: it may not be a good one.

 

“Do you ever get men in, to practice against?”

 

“On occasion.” Peggy hesitates, like she’s weighing her words. “Some of the women have had bad experiences.”

 

Lorna’s got her hands on her hips and feet settled apart like an immovable object.

 

“Getting them used to acting against a man in a safe environment and under supervision can be good for them, Pegs.”

 

“I know, I know.” Peggy huffs. This sounds like an old argument. She then looks at me.

 

“Do you have someone in mind?”

 

“I do, as it happens. Friend of mine. He’s a big guy.” I wave my hand way above my head in an approximation of Steve’s height. “But he’s a sweetheart and he won’t come in here with something to prove.”

 

“A beau of yours?” Lorna asks.

 

I lick my lips, dart a look at Peggy’s mouth.

 

“Hardly.”

 

“Well, we’ll raise the issue with the women next week and see what they say.” Peggy neatly sidesteps the issue for the moment.

 

“Need a lift home?” she asks me, bright eyed.

 

I do, and again I almost invite her up, but we make plans to meet on Thursday at The Fragrant, for dancing.

  


_Steve, Monday, October 11, 6 p.m._

 

I worry about Angie, about how close she’s getting to Carter. I’m not being paranoid, I watched them together at that play, and then at the cafe. They were getting on real well. Angie likes Carter and Carter likes Angie right back. That’s just about bringing me out in hives with worrying.  

 

I’ve looked in to Carter’s background and it all seems perfectly normal. She’s a British citizen, though her publicity machine trills on about her intention to become an American. She went to good schools, did well academically and with sports. She had planned on going to College - or University, as it’s known over there - but the war happened and she signed up with the Auxiliary Territorial Service, the women’s branch of the British Army. She was a driver first, then moved in to radar operations. She had weapons training and apparently was an excellent markswoman, especially with a rifle.

 

That’s the information I bear in mind when I think about Peggy Carter. An excellent markswoman, good with a rifle. Very able, theoretically, to shoot someone in the head from across a wide street. Police forensics had concluded from the angle of the wound that Mike’s killer had been in an above-shop apartment that looked almost directly on to his. It’d been 6.45 a.m. and he’d been drinking his first coffee of the day.

 

The police had found a single shell casing in that handily unoccupied apartment, proof that the shot had been taken from there. They found nothing else, no fingerprints, no fibres, only the damn casing from a common as mud round, from a common as mud rifle. That room in the apartment was clean, too, really clean. If Mike’s killer had taken the time to tidy up why leave the casing? A mistake? Misdirection? Mike’s street is in a retail district, and even that early in the day, there are plenty of people around - I know that well - but no one heard anything. His window had been open so there’d been no glass shattering but still… Christ it makes my head hurt trying to follow the twists and turns of logic and evidence. Makes me almost wish I could take comfort in drink.

 

Angie had gone to one of Carter’s self-defense classes. Carter’s involvement with the YWCA was on her studio bio, but there’d been no details. Self-defence, huh? Seems appropriate. Anyway, Angie came outta there with a suggestion that I’m not sure I like.

 

“Gotta be honest, Ange,” I’d told her. “The idea of being in the same room as Carter is making me twitchy.”  

   

“But you could do it, right? Stay calm?” Angie pushes the plate of brownies towards me. She’s started baking again. I’m trying not to think it’s related to Carter.

 

“Yeah, I could.” I concede. “But I’m worried she may recognise me.”

 

“How?” Angie stretched out the word in to a cautious query.

 

“If she was aware of Mike she might have noticed me. Us.” I very carefully kept my eyes down. “Or she might’ve got wind of who gave the statement implicating her.”

 

“Oh. Right. Yeah.”

 

“But. If her students decide they do want someone to practice on, I’ll be there.”

 

“Atta boy!”

 

Angie’s enthusiastic encouragement hadn’t lessened the tightness in my chest though.

 

So, here I am, walking in to a room full of women… and Peggy Carter is within reach. I can do this.

 

“Hi, everybody!” Angie says. “This is Steve.”

 

“Hi.” I give one of those awkward little waves and try not to look intimidating. Not sure it’s working, there’s some real uneasy women looking my way.

 

“Steve’s a teddy bear.” Angie stage-whispers to the class and punches me hard on the shoulder.

 

“Owww! Whattcha do that for?”

 

I whine, playing it up a bit, rubbing the spot like she actually hurt me, but the tension in the room has eased a little, I think.

 

“Thank you for joining us here today, Steve.”

 

It’s only because I’ve already got a tight grip on myself I don’t react. Not only does Carter look different in the flesh, she sounds different, and there’s something about her voice…

 

“Pleasure.”

 

“I think we’ll start with you and Lorna demonstrating some throws.”

 

Angie had told me about Lorna, and as the woman confidently approaches me now, I can tell she’s had training. This is probably going to hurt.

 

It does.

 

Lorna flips me easily on to the mat and I’m not quite ready for it so I land awkwardly.

 

“Okay?” I’m asked as I get to my feet.

 

Before I’ve finished nodding Lorna’s grabbed me with a different hold and down I go again. Hard.

 

“Do you think I could - “ I say as she hauls me upright.

 

“This isn’t about you, buddy.” Lorna says, direct, then she flips me again.

 

I’m flat on my back and Lorna’s making ready to pull me upright again.

 

“Just. Wait.” I hold up my hand. “Give me a moment, please.”

 

She’s smirking, hands on hips, and I glance at the rest of the women watching. They’ve seen that a big guy like me can be reduced to so much road kill and yeah, now most of them are keen to try. Hell, a couple of them look positively gleeful at the prospect.

 

Angie is of course cackling.

 

None of Carter’s students are realistically at Lorna’s skill level, so instead of me getting thrown around like a sack of mail I’m mostly used to practice escaping from holds.

 

“Come on, Steve, look threatening.” Carter chides.

 

She’s directing the action from the sidelines, relying on her assistant to do the hands on. She hasn’t come within fifteen feet of me the whole time, and I’d wonder about that except I’m concentrating on exerting enough strength to make it a challenge for my ‘victims’ without hurting any of ‘em, or letting them hurt me.

 

All in all it’s a crazy but fun hour of my time. Lorna shakes my hand at the end of it. Her grip’s strong and tight.

 

“Where’d you serve?” I ask on a hunch.

 

She winks at me.

 

“Classified.”

 

Huh.

 

_Angie, October 11, 7.10 p.m._

 

I think Steve enjoyed himself there, the masochist. I may have to seriously take him up on his offer to teach me judo. After that workout he looks more relaxed and happy than I’ve seen him for ages. It doesn’t last though, just until Peggy, Steve and I get outside to the Y’s parking lot at the back of the building.

 

“We have actually met before, Captain Rogers.”

 

Peggy says it conversationally but the effect is immediate: Steve tenses up and his expression shutters.

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

Peggy looks… sad, but determined. She says something in French which startles Steve enough to make him flinch. Then he fires something back, also in French, and they just…

 

There’s a lot being said without words here.

 

“I thought your voice was familiar.” Steve says finally and he sounds rough.

 

Peggy leans back against her car, arms folded across her chest. She’s going for casual, unconcerned but the lines of her body are stiffening. Steve’s not even attempting to disguise how he feels, he’s squared up, ready for combat. I only know I gotta head this off.

 

“Steve - “ I start.

 

“You want to know about your friend.” Peggy quietly cuts across me.

 

“Did you shoot him?” Steve’s jaw is tight.

 

“He knew who I was. He knew who you were.” Peggy’s tone stays even. “He was going to use your relationship for leverage.”

 

“... What?”

 

“ _‘Mike’_ was a soviet agent, Captain.“

 

“Bullshit!”

 

“He’s been under observation since the end of 1945.” Peggy doesn’t raise her voice but she gets sharp, cutting. “As all Russian-Americans who fought with the Soviets have been.”

 

“He… he was a war correspondent. An _American_ war correspondent.”

 

“He was not.” She’s gone gentle now. “I’m sorry.”

 

“I don’t believe you.”

 

But he’s beginning to. Oh, Steve. I wonder sometimes if he doesn’t believe he deserves good things.

 

“You can read the files. You still have clearance.” Peggy looks at me then. “But no one _without_ clearance should be party to any of this.”

 

Nothing like having a bucket of cold water thrown on you.

 

“I won’t say anything,” I say quickly, hands up. “I can leave right now. I won’t say a word, I swear.”

 

Is Peggy a spy? Am I in trouble? Am I gonna end up in shallow grave in the desert? I shoulda listened to my ma and never left home.

 

“I trust Angie,” Steve says. “She knows who I am and has never given the game away.”

 

The look he’s giving me is caught heartbreakingly between amused and tragic. His lips turn up in to a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I have exceptional hearing,” he tells me.

 

He heard me? That day I caught him slinging heavy furniture around like it was nothing? Well, shoot. Wow. It’s one thing suspecting your friend of being Captain America, something else entirely to have it confirmed.

 

“Thank you for your discretion, Angie, I appreciate it.”

 

“It’s fine.” I clear my throat. “It’s fine.”

 

“But you should leave now,” he says gently.

 

That’s a good idea. I take a step back away from them, Steve and his sorrow, Peggy and her steely sympathy.

 

I don’t go far, just to the front of the Y where I loiter, nervous, on the street. If I haven’t seen either of them in say, ten minutes, fifteen, I’ll get the bus back home.

 

Twelve minutes in to my ruminations - how did Peggy know Steve but he didn’t know her? Had she been in disguise? - Peggy pulls up in front of me.

 

“Do you need a lift?”

 

Truth to tell, I’m a little unsure about getting in the car with her. I really don’t know who Peggy Carter is anymore. But I do get in because my curiosity is going to kill me if I don’t.

 

“You’re not in trouble.” Peggy says, pulling away from the Y. “Though you might be required to sign an official secrets agreement.”

 

“Because of Steve?”

 

“Because of Steve.” She shakes her head ruefully. “Though it’s a bloody miracle that nobody else seems to have picked up on it. He hasn’t been making any effort to disguise himself. I mean, really? Not even a different  name?”

 

“You’ve known who he is all this time?”

 

“Yes.” Peggy sighs, changes gear smoothly. Her little car shoots ahead of the traffic. “I understand why he’d want to give it all away, given what he’s been through, but we couldn’t just let him loose.”

 

“We?”

 

“Classified.” She glances my way. “Sorry.”

 

“Are you really an actress?”

 

“You think I’m not?” Peggy grins at me and my heart stutters for a beat or two.

 

Something clicks into place.

 

“Wait. Did you know who I was?”

 

“Right from the start.” She sounds more cheerful than sorry. “But I did enjoy our dates.”

 

“Me too.” I make a show of checking my nails. “We could keep doing that. If you’d like.”

 

Peggy is silent for a good minute or two and I think, yeah, that’s done with. There’s a ball of hurt pushing up from behind my ribs and threatening my breathing.

 

“The studio is holding a massive Halloween party, which I’m expected to attend.” Peggy glances at me. “But I could sneak out and meet you at The Fragrant’s bash later on?”

 

“I, yeah, that’d be fun.”

 

I’ve been to a couple of The Fragrant’s holiday parties and they’re wildly fun! I’m excited by the prospect of going with Peggy… but then I stop and wonder how Steve might feel about me dating someone who… did Peggy ever answer the question of whether she’d killed Mike or not?

 

“Actually, I don’t know that me seeing you again is a good idea.”

 

Peggy nods, doesn’t take her eyes from the road.

 

“I understand.”

 

The drive continues and we’re both quiet. _Dammit._ This hurts. I don’t know what to do with my hands. As we pass under street lights the brief pools of illumination reveal me picking at my nails.  

 

“Could you drop me at Steve’s?” I ask, small and quiet.

 

“Of course.”

 

I don’t doubt now Peggy knows where he lives.

 

“It won’tl be good for him to be alone right now.” I explain.

 

“No,” Peggy agrees softly. “And he’s too damn stubborn to admit when he needs help.”

 

“Oh, you’ve met him then?”

 

The sassy comment falls outta my mouth on reflex - yes, I am familiar with Steve’s stubbornness - but Peggy gives me a very sharp look. It softens when she sees whatever it is my face is saying.

 

“Thank you for caring about him, Angie.”

 

“How could I not?” I shrug helplessly. “He’s Steve Rogers.”

 

Peggy laughs then and I know she understands what I mean. I think most people who get close to Steve wind up protective of him. Most people. Alleged Soviet spies excluded.

 

We pull up outside Steve’s bungalow in Beverly Grove.

 

“His car’s not here.” Peggy observes, peering up the driveway.

 

“That’s ok, I’ve got keys. Thanks for the lift.”

 

“Anytime.”

 

We’re just looking at each other now, in the the privacy of her roadster with the top up, almost breathing in sync. The street is empty and peaceful.

 

“I’ll be at The Fragrant’s party.” Peggy says.

 

It’s an invitation she’s leaving open for me and I give her a small smile. I like her, I really like her, but not at the expense of my friendship with Steve.

 

“Bye, Peggy. See you around...”

  


Epilogue:

 

_Angie, New York, Wednesday, December 22, 10.30 a.m._

 

I almost don’t see him, running as I am down the street, but out of the corner of my eye… I stop and about turn, getting sworn at by the guy behind me as he suddenly has to dodge, then back track to the diner and a face that looks familiar.

 

“James Barnes?”

 

He doesn’t look like the happy fella in the photos but it’s definitely him. He glances up at me and frowns. He’s thin, tired; the empty left sleeve of his jacket is pinned up out of the way.

 

“James Buchanan Barnes?”

 

He throws me a smile that’s like the ghost of charm.

 

“Who wants to know?”

 

“Steve Rogers.”

 

Luckily his cup is empty because his hand jerks and tips it over.

 

“He’s… he’s dead.”

 

“Nope. He’s alive and well in LA.”

 

That seems to leave him speechless for a moment.

 

“The hell is he doing there?”

 

“We run a detective agency.”

 

“Are you his wife or something?”

 

There’s a painful rawness in Barnes’ eyes, and I realise how that might have come across.

 

“No, no.” I say quick. “Colleague. Friends. That’s all.”

 

For a moment Barnes just stares at me, then his face warms and softens just a bit.

 

“Son of a gun. He got his agency.” He frowns. “Why LA?”

 

“He thought you were dead,” I say, soft. That’s all that needs to be said.

 

Barnes pulls in a shaky breath.

 

“Sure felt like I was.”

 

Something bad happened to Barnes, that much is painfully obvious. He looks like hell.

 

“Can I ask where you’ve been?” He staring at me again, tense as he studies my face. “You don’t hafta tell me anything, really. I know it’s probably ‘classified’.”

 

Boy, am I tired of hearing that word.

 

Barnes breathes in and out again, then gestures to the seat opposite him.

 

“Seeing as you’re a friend of Steve’s… Sit? Please?”

 

“Thanks.” I slide into the booth.

 

“Coffee?”

 

“No, thanks, I can’t stay.”

 

Barnes fiddles with his cup, not looking at me.

 

“I don’t have all my memories… from back then, and I’ve lost a lot of time.” His voice is low, rough and halting. “I only really came to myself about four months ago. Found myself in a sanitorium in Liechtenstein, down an arm, brain like swiss cheese. But I woke up one morning and finally remembered who I was.”

 

“Nobody else knew?”

 

“No ID, no memory. I spoke German well enough they didn’t realise I was an American.”

 

“Wow.” I breath out. “How are you doing?”

 

“Better.” He flashes me another one of those thin smiles. “How’s Steve?”

 

“You could ask him yourself.”

 

“I… no. I don’t think he’d want to see me.” He shrugs his left shoulder. “Like this.”

 

“Don’t underestimate him. He’ll want to see you.”

 

In the fallout of the whole ‘Mike’ thing, Steve had opened up a little about Barnes, about how much he’d meant to him. That was a whole other heartbreak he’d been dealing with alone.

 

Barnes is still looking shaken and hesitant, and I’ve really gotta go. I reach inside my handbag and freeze… because Barnes looks like he thinks I’m going to pull a gun on him.

 

“I’m going to give you one of our business cards.”

 

I move slowly, watching him watch me like a hawk. I put the card on the table in front of him.

 

“Our address and phone number. Write to him, please. I swear he will be beside himself.”

 

Barnes nod mutely but doesn’t touch the card.

 

“And if I don’t?”

 

“Then you don’t.”

 

His fingers are edging towards the card, skittish and unsure.

 

“Will you say anything?”

 

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

 

It’ll kill me not to tell Steve about Barnes, but I can pretend I never saw him. This secret can join all the rest.

 

Barnes is looking at the card now.

 

“ _A. Martinelli_?”

 

“Angie.”

 

“The Martinelli’s that have that little restaurant in Queens?”

 

“My pa’s cousins.”

 

“I remember the cannelloni.” Barnes is almost grinning now, it makes him look so much younger. “It was _the best_.”

 

“Still is. Hey, you wanna come have dinner with me there?”

 

Barnes cocks his head to the side and there’s something small and mischievous peeking through.

 

“You got a fella’d be upset if we had dinner together?”

 

I lean forward, lower my voice.

 

“Not a fella.”

 

I can see he gets it straight away and I wink. If he was healthier that flush creeping over his face wouldn’t look so obvious.

 

“When are you heading back to LA?”

 

“December 30.” I grab a pencil out of my bag, flip the Agency card over and write down my parents’ phone number. “You can catch me here in the meantime.”

 

“Dinner. Yeah, I think I’d like that. She uh, your not-fella, she won’t mind?”

 

“Not if I’m home in time for New Years Eve.” I wink again. “We’ve got plans.”

 

“All right then.” Barnes picks up the card and fumbles it in to his pocket. “I’ll be in touch.”

 

And then I really do have to leave. I say goodbye to Barnes then dart back outside again, pulling my collar up tight around my neck. Looks like it’s going to snow.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Spoiler note:_  
>  Bucky is rescued before Hydra gets to completely convert him, though the physical and mental damage is severe. It takes a long, long time for him to remember who he was
> 
>    
> So! Lots of room for expansion :D  
> Missing scenes, anyone? I have a list.


End file.
